The Turin Shroud Secret (44 page)

‘And the murder of Em – Emma Varley.’ He looks away.

He’s crying. Unbelievably, the man who slaughtered a dozen or more women is actually weeping.

He uses the edge of the pillow to wipe away tears. ‘I thought that God had chosen her, had wanted me to help her go to him.
But I was mistaken.’

‘Mistaken?’

‘My feelings for her confused me. I’ve never felt like that before.’

‘You loved her.’

‘Still do. That’s why I know it’s wrong. It felt wrong when I did it. But I still did it.’

‘And you’re telling me this now, why? Presumably, only because you know you’re safe from prosecution, and the death penalty.’
She looks toward Weinstock. ‘You’re rock-solid certain that the good doctor here is going to insist on you being hospitalised
so there’s no risk of you ever going to trial.’

‘No – you’re wrong! I’m telling you, because God wants me to stand trial.’ He takes a slow breath and calms himself. ‘The
Lord wants me to face up to what I’ve done. He’s not ashamed of how He guided me, nor I of how I was guided. The world must
know the errors made were mortal not divine.’

Weinstock bends close to his patient and whispers, ‘May I explain a little more to the officer?’

The Creeper nods.

‘With respect, Lieutenant, I don’t think you understand the enormity of what is being said to you. A landmark case some years
back ruled that an insanity defence cannot be imposed upon an intelligent defendant who wishes to forgo such a defence. Mr
James is just such a person.’

‘That’s right.’ His face is filled with contentment. ‘I wish to
forgo such a defence.
I confess to the murders of Kim Bass and Emma Varley and I demand I be punished for them.’

Sirens blare. Voices fade in and out. Lights flash.

Nic Karakandez knows from the chaos around him that he’s in an ambulance and is dying. The pain comes now. Comes with a fanfare.
A big brass band of agony booms out the message that his body can’t survive this level of trauma.

Strangers mop blood from his gut. They press pads with desperate hands and shout about hydrostatic shock, haem-orrhaging,
BP levels and Christ knows what else.

Their tones give away that they’re in a race to save his life – and they’re losing.

A cop’s face swims into view.

‘Hang on, buddy.’ A forced smile. ‘We’re nearly there. Keep looking at me, you hear.’

Nic tries his best but his eyelids are heavy. He can’t hold out any more.

Blackness.

‘He’s going. Quick. Come on,
do something.’

‘Keep him awake. For God’s sake just keep him awake.’

Distant voices. The world bumping. Sirens. Incredible heat and then waves of cold.

‘Come on, buddy, you’re going to be all right.’

Nic opens his eyes and sees the cop again.

‘Good, that’s good. Keep staring at me.’

He recognises the look. The one he’s worn often enough. Pulled it out on street corners when gangbangers, kids too young to
even drink, are bleeding out. He’s knelt beside them, given them that look and lied away their last minutes.

He closes his eyes again.

‘No. No. Come on buddy!’

The darkness is restful. This is where the peace is. This is where the pain can be locked out.

He thinks of Carolina and Max. The three of them flying off for the holiday they never took. Running in the sand and sea together,
holding hands, splashing and laughing as they jump waves.

‘We’re
losing
him.’

The brass band stops now.

The pain rages no more.

I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord.

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

Mitzi walks in at 8 a.m. to an office already close to full.

She scans the desks suspiciously as she slips off her coat. ‘So what happened, guys? You all get tossed out by your wives
as part of some class action?’

A stone-faced sergeant by the photocopier catches her eye. ‘Go see the captain. Said he wanted to know when you came in.’

She spins her coat around the top of a chair. ‘Matthews, at eight on a Monday?’

‘Your phone’s off. He’s been calling you.’

‘Shit.’ She hasn’t paid the last bill. They finally disconnected her. She digs in her purse for her cell. It’s dead. Has been
since she called Carter going home last night. She’d been too tired to remember to put it on charge.

Mitzi heads to the boss’s office. If she’s in trouble, it’s probably to do with the legal mumbo jumbo at the hospital. What
the hell. She did the best she could. They can’t ask more than that.

Matthews’ secretary isn’t at her guard post. Through the door she can see him talking to Tyler Carter. Doesn’t look too friendly.

She knocks and walks in. ‘You wanted me, sir.’ Her heart skips a beat.

‘Come in, shut the door.’ He waves her over.

She doesn’t like the look on their faces. ‘What is it?’

‘Nic Karakandez was shot last night at LAX, a gunfight with a man fleeing border guards.’

She takes a deep breath.

‘He died on the way to County. A bullet through the gut and another in the shoulder—’

‘Oh Jesus.’ Her legs go shaky.

He puts a hand up. ‘Let me finish. They brought him round in the ER. He’s alive but in a coma.’ Matthews guides her into a
chair. ‘He shot dead a guy running away, the son of a bitch who’d pinned him with two .45s.’

Carter touches her shoulder. ‘Broussard, the scientist you said he was bringing back, he’s dead too. Plus a disabled guy who
caught a headshot. A teenage boy is going to be paralysed for life.’

Mitzi is speechless.

‘Broussard was found murdered in a LAX restroom – airside of the border line. It’s what sparked the shoot-out.’

‘I thought they were home and dry,’ she finally says. ‘Nic rang from JFK and said everything was fine.’

‘Well, it wasn’t.’ Matthews tries to be practical. ‘Tyler’s got
a couple of his men processing the scene and the two bodies are down at the morgue.’

‘I’d like to go to the hospital.’ She looks to Carter. ‘If that’s okay? I’ll try to wrap up my stuff on the Creeper when I
come back.’

‘Sure. Watch yourself down there. The press have got wind of the shootings and they’re crawling over the local ER rooms.’

The office door is opened by Amy Chang, her face full of sympathy. ‘I came straight over when I heard.’

Mitzi’s glad to see her. ‘Thanks.’

Matthews can’t let her leave without spelling things out, bracing her for the worst. ‘Things don’t look good with Nic. The
docs last night said it was sixty-forty against him pulling through.’

‘Screw the docs.’ Mitzi pulls the door open. ‘He’s got a boat to sail and I’m gonna damn well make sure he does.’

COUNTY HOSPITAL, LOS ANGELES

The trip out to County almost breaks the lieutenant’s job-hardened heart.

She’d hoped that turning up at his bedside would have some magical effect – like it does in films. But it hasn’t. Nic Karakandez
is as pale as a ghost.

She looks across the tubes, the blood and plasma bags and the beeping monitors to Amy Chang. ‘Can you go talk to them – you
know, doctor to doctor? Tell me what his chances really are?’

‘Of course.’ The ME heads out.

Mitzi stares at Nic. Shit, he really looks dead. ‘Four days, you dope.’ She takes his hand in hers. ‘Four freakin’ days. How
can you go screw things up with just
four
days to go? I should kick your ass. Fact is, when I get you outta here
I will
kick your ass.’

She studies the monitor then locks his fingers between both her hands and just holds on. Amy opens the door and the movement
makes her turn.

‘Good and bad news, Mitz. The gut wound was a through-and-through. He bled out badly but no vital organs were hit. That’s
a big plus. Bad news is he cracked his head going down and that caused intracerebral haemorrhaging and edema that they didn’t
find until they CT-scanned him. Add the shoulder wound, major blood loss and trauma and you can see why he flatlined. Paramedics
did an incredible job bringing him round and keeping him ticking until they got him in surgery.’

‘What are his chances, Amy?’

‘Really hard to say.’

‘Don’t doctorise me. Friend to friend. Are we booking a party or fixing for a funeral?’

Amy pushes out a smile. ‘The next few hours will tell us.’

Sixty-forty against.

The odds roll like dice in Mitzi’s head. Surely Nic’s beaten stats worse than that out on the street? She bites at a nail
and stares out of the passenger window as Amy drives back to the precinct. If she hadn’t sent him to Italy, none of this would
have happened. But she knows there’s no use beating herself up – it ain’t gonna make him better. She pulls off the last of
the hangnail and turns to her friend. ‘The guy Nic shot, did you do the exam on him?’

‘Terri Jones got him. I was still finishing up on Emma Varley when they called it in.’

‘You see him at all? See what he looked like?’ She knows why she’s asking. ‘Just a glimpse. He was nothing out of the ordinary.
Arabic. Athletic. Late-thirties, I guess. I didn’t pay too much attention.’

Mitzi can’t help but ask. ‘Where’d Nic shoot him?’

‘Head.’ She taps a finger just above her nose.

‘Shame. Bastard would have died quick from that.’

They park up and swipe themselves in. ‘I’ll call you later,’ says Amy. ‘I’ve still got stuff to do. I finished that report
on the Shroud. Let me know if or when you want it.’

‘Thanks. It doesn’t seem important right now.’

‘It isn’t. Anyway, I’ll stick it in the internal mail for you.’

‘Thanks.’ Mitzi smiles. ‘What do you think? Faked or not?’

‘Ignoring what all the sceptics and nutjobs claim – and believe me, there are hundreds of them who’ve written on this – I’d
say the marks on the Shroud are consistent with someone crucified and stabbed.’

‘You’d stand up in court and say that?’

‘Probably would – but I’d want a big fat fee to do so.’

They both laugh. Amy waves as she turns away. ‘Don’t go home without calling me.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Mitzi walks back into Homicide and through to Carter’s office. She’s going to keep busy. Stay involved.
Not think about those monitors, tubes and unfavourable odds.

Carter is with Tom Hix, hands on his desk, bent over folders, papers and transparencies. He looks up as soon as Mitzi walks
in. ‘What’s the latest?’

‘They say he’s stable but still critical.’

‘Out of the coma?’

‘No. Amy Chang reckons the next couple of hours will be decisive.’

Hix nods. ‘We used to think that all the brain damage came at the moment of injury. Now we know the time afterwards is even
more dangerous. You’re talking brain swelling and complications like spastic hemiplegia, hyper-refiexia, quadrispasticity—’

‘No, we’re not, Tom.’ Carter interrupts. ‘We’re absolutely
not
talking that kind of trash.’

‘Sorry, Tyler, I wasn’t thinking.’

Mitzi gestures to the desk. ‘What you looking at?’

Carter takes a beat. ‘Tom’s discovered something unusual. Unusual and disturbing.’ He spreads out three sets of DNA codes.
‘You’re the scientist, you explain it.’

Hix is keen to do so. ‘The first transparent printout is the DNA of the offender who left trace at Tamara Jacobs’s house and
in the rented Lexus. We’ve already blood-matched it to the man Nic shot dead last night. It’s one and the same.’

Mitzi looks pleased. ‘So we have Tamara’s killer.’

‘And,’ adds Carter, ‘Édouard Broussard’s.’

Tom qualifies it. ‘Yes. Subject to a fuller DNA test, but that’s really only a formality. Now look at this second profile.’
He slides the transparency from its folder. ‘This is the sample Nic FedExed from Italy – trace from the killer of scientist
Mario Sacconi.’ He lays it over the top of the first print. ‘One and the same.’

‘His prints match too,’ adds Carter. ‘We got partials from the sticky tape used on the female victim in Italy – they’re good
enough to show a conclusive match. This guy was a pro. A professional assassin.’

Hix produces another three transparencies. ‘Let’s move on to the Creeper case. Here things get even more intriguing. Do you
know whose genetic fingerprints these are?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘The first is the DNA profile of the Creeper himself. We’ve had it on file for more than a year. The second is from swabs
John James voluntarily gave us yesterday. The third is
from hair root samples found on the body of Emma Varley.’ He lays all three on top of each other.

‘Perfect matches,’ announces Carter. ‘If we can get the DA to prosecute, we have an open and closed case on James.’

Carter and Hix exchange looks.

‘What?’ asks Mitzi. ‘This is good news, isn’t it? We got two separate killers and two separate DNA profiles that link them
to their crimes. Is there more than that?’

‘Show her,’ says Carter.

The scientist carefully slides a transparency out of a plastic cover. ‘This is DNA from the blood that Nic shipped us and
said came from the Shroud of Turin, samples Erica Craxi gave him inside a Saint Christopher locket.’

She looks at the printout. It’s just a mass of shaded boxes but even she can tell it’s not the same as the others. ‘So what?
What’s the connection?’

Hix pulls away two of the other transparencies. ‘The one here on the left is the man Nic shot. The one on the right is John
James aka the Creeper.’ He pauses and lets Carter and Mitzi take a good long look. ‘The print in my hand is of the DNA from
the Shroud.’ He lays it first on top of the left-hand profile, the man Nic killed. ‘Here, you see similarities. Not total
matches in all columns, only familial matches. Distant relations, diluted through the generations, maybe even through centuries,
but nonetheless matches.’ He lifts it off and then places it over the second profile, the one of the Creeper. ‘Again you see
matches. Not a complete match but nonetheless another conclusive indication of distant family links.’